


Can't Find My Way Home

by StitchNLich (GallifreyanAtHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M, Mention of previous Geralt/ Yennefer, Miscommunication, Miscommunication as plot, friends to lovers to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanAtHearts/pseuds/StitchNLich
Summary: It can’t have been only Geralt’s fault, the slow and painful diminishing of the ways they touched each other.When reunited on the path, Eskel is painfully reminded of the intimacy he no longer shares with Geralt.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102





	Can't Find My Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> I've never heard of a timeline in my life. Additionally, I've blended canons in my little cocktail shaker brain and poured out this mess. This is my first go at writing Eskel - though I love him. I hope I did justice. Based on this beautiful art by @mondfuchs on Tumblr: https://mondfuchs.tumblr.com/post/635609670916227072/mondfuchs-had-the-urge-to-start-another-drawing
> 
> Title is from My Way Home is Through You by My Chemical Romance. Find me on Tumblr at @koshertaako

Geralt doesn’t wince, but he shifts his weight underneath Eskel’s hands, and he knows Geralt is in pain. He doesn’t apologize.

Eskel tries to be as gentle as possible, keep his touch soothing despite the necessary pain. The curved needle feels tiny in his hands, but despite his thick fingers, he is accustomed enough to the motions to keep tidy and neat the stitches he places into Geralt’s hip.

“Almost done.” Eskel says calmly and the only response he receives is a grunt. He ties off the thread and covers the wound with clean strips of cloth. “That’ll do.” He stands and starts picking up bloody clothes and damp rags stained pink. He watches Geralt gingerly sit up.

“Pants.” He demands.

“Bad idea.” Eskel says, but tosses one of Geralt’s bags at him. Let the grumpy bastard find his own pants. Geralt catches it with an audible exhale of breath and Eskel’s conscience twinges, but if Geralt wants to insist that he’s alright, Eskel will let him, and treat him accordingly. Eskel is pretty sure at least one of his ribs is bruised at the bare minimum, though.

“You’re damned lucky I was here.” Eskel says nonchalantly, hoping to not betray how concerned he is at the thought of his not having been there. Geralt looks up from the bag he’s extracting a pair of pants from. He doesn’t say anything, there isn’t much  _ to _ say, but he meets Eskel’s gaze and his eyes speak volumes. Eskel nods just ever so slightly and Geralt returns the gesture. Words aren’t necessary here, not with Geralt. They’re nice, to be certain, but when Geralt is grumpy, Eskel always understands. He’s unsure what to do with the rags that are still in his hands and so he tosses them in a heap in the corner; now at least they’re not strewn all over the bed and floor. 

He turns to find Geralt attempting to wiggle himself into his pants without disturbing the gashes, now clean and covered but still painful on his hip and thigh. Under Eskel’s smug but watchful gaze, Geralt gives up.

“Bad idea.” He agrees belatedly and leans heavily back onto the bed.

“Ridiculous old man.” Eskel says warmly, sitting heavily at the foot of the mattress. He’s struck with the inappropriate impulse to press kisses to the cloth bandaging he’s placed so carefully over Geralt’s wounds. He and Geralt haven’t been that in a long while. He can’t help but wonder if Geralt misses it as well.

He doesn’t wonder long. It’s only due to his finely honed senses that he processes the bounding footfalls on the creaky floorboards of the inn’s corridor before the door bursts open. The man who throws himself into the room has a mop of curled brown hair and wild blue eyes, and is dressed outlandishly in colors that Eskel isn’t sure occur in nature.

“Geralt!” The stranger exclaims. His eyes focus on Eskel. Eskel stands to move between the frantic man and his injured brother, his eyes narrowing even as the stranger narrows his own.

“Jaskier.” He hears Geralt rasp, and it clicks into place. The faint smell on Geralt’s clothes and in his room that Eskel hadn’t been able to place. Awkward, but he knows when he’s not welcome. 

“I’ll leave you, then.” He says. His face burns, but he knows that thankfully he’s not actually turning red.

He’s not expecting the flailed kick to the back of his thigh, and he wheels on Geralt, who is grinning at him.

“Injured.” Geralt reminds him smugly before Eskel can reciprocate the smarmy, playful violence.

“Lucky for you, you bastard.” Eskel says, but not without embarrassing fondness oozing from his voice. Geralt sits up gingerly and holds an arm out. Eskel reaches back without even stopping to think. Geralt grips his forearm and uses the momentum to pull himself into a precarious standing position. He presses his forehead to Eskel’s own. Eskel takes a deep, fortifying breath. He’s confused. The back of his neck itches under the gaze of the third person in the room.

“I would have died if you hadn’t turned up.” Geralt says quietly.

“I know.” 

Geralt pulls him into an embrace, and holds him tightly like he hasn’t been held in years. He understands Geralt’s meaning, his request to stay. It’s almost worse. For all that he wants to never let go, Eskel does not cling when Geralt releases him. Instead, he turns back to appraise the man, Jaskier, apparently. Eskel has heard of him, of course, had known he was connected to Geralt, but is meeting him in person for the first time. He crosses his arms to help ignore the urge to put one around Geralt’s waist.

“Wouldn’t have pegged him as your type.” Eskel says casually after looking the incredulous bard up and down. Geralt ignores the comment but spots of red appear high on Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Eskel, this is Jaskier.” Geralt says evenly. “Jaskier, this is my- This is Eskel.” Eskel glances at Geralt from the corner of his eye, but otherwise refrains from saying anything. 

“So what  _ is _ Geralt’s type?” Jaskier says, and Eskel would think the comment snide, bratty even, but his tone is amused.

It would have been himself, once upon a time.

“Terrifying sorceresses he has absolutely no business getting involved with.” He says instead. Geralt socks Eskel in the shoulder and, injured or not, Eskel responds in kind. Jaskier’s eyes widen, and as if just realizing, he rushes to Geralt’s other side to coo over the bandages on his leg. Before Eskel can protest, Jaskier is lifting the careful wraps of them, and even the dressing underneath.

“He stitched you up pretty well.” Jaskier says, sounding almost hurt.

“Yes, and those were wrapped perfectly before you fucked them up.” Eskel says, even as Geralt is batting Jaskier’s hands away so that Eskel can fix his ruined handiwork. He does so methodically, pointedly ignoring the silent conversation that Geralt and Jaskier are having. He finishes as quickly as he is able without sacrificing gentleness or care.

“I’d best be going.” He says calmly once he’s done. “They won’t suffer a second witcher for the night, so I’d better move while there’s still daylight.”

“Oh don’t be an ass.” Geralt says. “I owe you at least a drink for your help out there.” 

“More like the whole of the reward,” Eskel grouses. “I don’t remember you doing any monster slaying, only a whole lot of getting your ass handed to you.”

Jaskier starts to say something, surely indignant, but Geralt talks over him.

“Half then, because I need the coin.” Eskel pretends to size him up, and his amusement must show on his face because soon both he and Geralt are lost in hearty guffaws. The laughter ends quickly when Geralt clutches his chest, and then gestures rudely when both Jaskier and Eskel move toward him. 

“Eat with us at least.” Geralt says. “I want to hear how you’ve been. It’s been too long.”

“And whose fault is that?” Eskel snorts. “I spend my winters at the keep. Where have  _ you  _ been?” Eskel wishes he could have missed the look exchanged between Geralt and the bard. “Ah.”

Before Geralt can argue, Eskel leaves. He waits downstairs, though, drinking ale that he’s certain has been watered down, standing casually next to the stairs. If he focuses his attention, he can barely make out the sounds of Geralt’s voice, but not the words he’s saying. It’s alright, he doesn’t particularly want to know anyway.

There is no precise moment that Eskel can point to, no one conversation or incident or event that was the end of their intimate relationship. Eskel would blame the pretty, puffed up troubadour, but the man would have been barely a boy, so long ago it was. Eskel and Geralt had barely been boys themselves when it had begun. They had always been close, especially after so few of their cohort had survived the trials. He’s pretty sure now that they’re the only two left.

It can’t have been only Geralt’s fault, the slow and painful diminishing of the ways they touched each other. Eskel is sure he is equally to blame, never asking, replying in kind to Geralt. Fear. A touch that Geralt withdrew. Doubt. A kiss that Eskel did not return. An equation of separation, equaling a yawning chasm, both sides crumbling away in the subtraction of intimacy, balanced.

“Stop that.” Eskel is jolted out of his morose thoughts by not only Geralt’s stern voice, but also his fingers around Eskel’s wrist, firmly. “Still picking at your skin?” Eskel hadn’t even realised he was doing it, as had been the case during the heyday of the ill habit.

“Not in a long time. Things come back, sometimes, don’t they.” Eskel gently pulls his arm from Geralt’s grasp and evenly meets his gaze as he stands next to him in the small stairwell. For a moment, Eskel wonders where the famous Jaskier is, but a moment later, he hears the strumming of a lute from the front room, and then immediately tunes it out.

“Sometimes.” Geralt agrees. “Usually when they were never resolved in the first place.” His eyes are a brighter yellow than Eskel’s own, the slit pupils of them trained steadily on his face, so eternally familiar a stare.

“Not all of us have fame and comfort to move on to.” Eskel teases, idly rubbing his face, the uneven texture of scar tissue equal parts soothing and repulsive.

“Is that what you think I’ve done?” Geralt says, an odd note to his voice.

“Yennefer’s home in Vengerburg was very comfortable, I would imagine,” Geralt quirks a grin, “and now this very handsome piece you’ve picked up who sings your praises to the whole of the world.” The smile slips when Eskel mentions Jaskier, the words accompanied by a thumb jerked over his shoulder. He’s not sure when this conversation became serious. It might have been so from the start, despite both witchers ignoring it.

“What do you think that Jaskier and I-”

“Good for you really.” Eskel cuts Geralt off. “Just remember where you came from occasionally. Lambert keeps suggesting that you’re dead.”

Abruptly, Geralt has him by the front of his shirt, yanking with his fist, even grasping and tugging on some of the chest hair underneath. Eskel is taken aback, but looks at Geralt with what he hopes is a placid expression. The sudden movement seems to have pained Geralt because he is rearranging his own features to hide it from Eskel. His heart is thudding, but he continues to look mildly expectant at his brother, waiting.

Geralt releases him with a grunt, his fist flattening to lay his palm against Eskel’s chest for the briefest moment, and then removes it entirely. Eskel straightens his mussed clothing but otherwise does not acknowledge what had happened. It’s better this way, he thinks, but oh what he wouldn’t give to have known what was going through Geralt’s head. The sound of the raucous laughter of a crowd pulls him out of his own thoughts and he glances through the doorway into the front room to see the bard on a table with a smarmy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes as he half sings, half tells a story, while strumming his lute. He’s staring at Geralt and Eskel. Eskel turns back to Geralt.

“You’re jealous.” Geralt says in the way of matter-of-fact realization. Slow on the uptake, his brother. He doesn’t deny it, because Geralt knows him too well for lying. Nor does he need to confirm it, silence is an answer on its own.

“Your home is with us.” Eskel says solemnly, a diversion of reasoning, an attempt to salvage his pride.

“Us, hm?” When Geralt meets his eyes, Eskel feels as if Geralt can read his soul, has always felt that way. It’s tempting to drop his eyes, but he keeps his chin raised defiantly, maintaining eye contact. “With  _ you _ , you mean.” Geralt speaks Eskel’s truth gently, with no accusation.

“That hasn’t been the case in a long time.” Eskel says gruffly, no such failure to accuse in his own tone.

“That is not only  _ my _ fault.” Geralt says. His tone is still gentle, but strained.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Eskel admits in response to Geralt echoing his own thoughts.

“I have… Missed you.” Geralt says.

“That’s because you’re a sentimental old man.” Eskel teases.

“If I’m old what does that make you?” Geralt asks archly.

“Wise.” Eskel says, and manages to hold a straight face long enough for Geralt to snort. The laughter in Geralt’s eyes is heady. A pair of sentimental old men, then.

“Eskel…” Geralt starts oddly and catches his eyes again. He waits, hardly daring breathe. “I’m being stupid again.” He mutters, and it is obvious that that’s not how he had originally intended to end the sentence.

“Aw, don’t feel too bad, Geralt, you’re usually being stupid.” The insult earns him a hit on the arm, which he takes with an exaggerated sway.

It also earns him a kiss, which he is much less prepared for. Unlike the punch, it catches him off guard, and his reaction is real. He’s slow to process, and he almost doesn’t kiss Geralt back in time, but he catches Geralt’s lips with his own before he can pull away. Sound fades away, and he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. Somewhere, something that might be the breaking of a catgut string twangs aggressively, but even that distracts neither himself nor Geralt. Eskel allows himself to feel things, acknowledge things, that he hasn’t in a very long time. The texture of Geralt’s calloused hand is rough against the skin of his face, although that might just be, well, his face. Eskel let’s himself stop thinking and just  _ feels _ , vibrantly and richly, as he hasn’t since they were boys who imagined glory.

Eventually Geralt pulls away, his hand still resting on Eskel’s scarred cheek and that makes him itchy, and irritated, though he swallows it. He blinks stupidly at Geralt, who is looking just as surprised, though the initial action was his own. Eskel waits for his hearing to return to normal, but then realizes the other room has simply quieted in the absence of music.

Geralt notices it too, Eskel can tell, but he watches him make the decision to ignore it. 

“Stupid to do that in public,” Eskel admonishes half-heartedly, looking around cautiously.

“I was afraid.” Geralt says abruptly, as if he’s only just realized, and Eskel’s attention snaps to him again. “That it would never be the same. As when we were kids.” Eskel understands. He puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and squeezes.

“And yet, you managed to become the hero we imagined you would be.”

Geralt grimaces and Eskel removes his hands from Geralt apologetically. Geralt catches one of them in his own. 

“You were right.” Geralt murmurs, so intimately that it makes Eskel once again glance over their surroundings. “My home is you. And I was scared of what we would both find if I returned.” Eskel’s heart is pounding in his throat, and he is seized with the urge to kiss Geralt again, but refrains.

“Are you scared now?” Eskel breathes, so low that he’s almost unsure whether Geralt hears. 

“No,” Geralt matches his volume. Eskel’s heart jumps. He steadies himself. He daren’t ask about Jaskier, though he wants to.

Apparently, he does not need to, because he can hear the bard approach, whistling cheerfully in an exaggerated tune. Eskel turns toward the main room but sees no one through the door.

“I am going to head upstairs.” He hears the bard announce in a loud voice, from nearby. And only then does the bard poke his head into the stairwell.

“Ah good, everyone’s decent.” Jaskier says in a more normal voice. Eskel holds his breath, cautious of what ugliness is to follow.

“Geralt, you absolute  _ scamp _ , you didn’t tell me!” The bard smacks Geralt’s arm, before breaking into a wide grin. “I can’t take a hint if you don’t give me any hints, moron.” Eskel snorts at the insult. Jaskier rounds on him. “Oh we  _ must _ get more acquainted,” he says, taking Eskel’s arm. Eskel’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “So, tell me everything. His childhood friend? His _ first lover _ ?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide with exaggerated anticipation, and he waggles his eyebrows at Geralt around Eskel. “I simply must know every embarrassing detail.” The bard finishes, and Geralt looks uncharacteristically stricken. Eskel shares an unexpected laugh with Jaskier.

“That can be arranged.” He says slowly, testing out the waters of a new, but not unwelcome, conversational partner. “Perhaps Geralt will bring you along to Kaer Morhen this winter and we can discuss at length.” Despite his easy tone, Eskel looks meaningfully at Geralt, who nods almost imperceptibly. Jaskier answers him, but he doesn’t quite catch the words, because his heart is lifted like a bird in soaring flight.

Geralt is coming home.


End file.
